The Little Stowaway
by adamsforthought
Summary: Just as John and Anna Bates begin to grow concerned about their childlessness, they meet little Henry, an intriguing young rascal from the village who increasingly reminds John of his own childhood, especially as details of Henry's family life come into light. My version of a S5, with occasional references to the S4 storyline. Anna/Bates-centric.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N (a.k.a. Introduction): **_Canon for everything up to S4. __I wanted to show that Anna & Bates can have an interesting S5 storyline _without_ being dramatically and violently torn apart, à la Fellowes (who presumably has the rights to the characters, etc etc). I can't guarantee his level of high drama, but I hope you enjoy it. M__y goal is to translate the show's style to paper, and generally stick to what Downton might show on screen.  
_

_I'm neither British nor from the 1920's. I Googled a fair amount, but if there are anachronisms and other errors, please forgive me! You can point them out if you'd like - I hope they're not too distracting, at least. Finally, y__ou might notice some crossover between my prison letter fic, "Dearest," and this one._

_Thanks to **terriejane** first and foremost for giving my draft a glance and boosting my morale! But also, **Gelana** and **bugs** also deserve my gratitude for their feedback, wisdom, and general hilarity.  
_

* * *

He had been happy to offer his services, and Mrs. Hughes had not hesitated beyond a cursory, "Well, only if you're sure you can spare the time," before rushing off in a desperate effort to catch up to her unusually hectic day. It was years since anyone had paused to consider his leg a potential impediment to such tasks as these, and he was glad of it.

In fact, John Bates was in a particularly cheery mood today, though he himself could discern no particular reason for it. Perhaps it was the sun, making a rare appearance through the benign, wispy clouds that hung in the sky — there were _always _clouds, of course, but today they seemed much less interested than usual in looming threateningly overhead.

Or perhaps it was simply that he had found an unexpected break, to escape the downstairs bustle and stroll past the estate's budding fields, the grass still wet with the morning dew. To be quite honest with himself, John had offered to post Mrs. Hughes's letter in the village not so much out of kindness as the instinct to seize a rare opportunity.

If only Anna could have accompanied him — then, he thought, this moment would have been perfect. Without this errand to run, he imagined he might at this very instant have been mending coats and cleaning shoes with her in the boot room. It suddenly struck him unjust that he should have have left her there, in that dark and stifling space, while he alone basked in the sunlight. Immediately, he resolved to appease his conscience by purchasing some small present from the village, though he would withhold the reason for it when he presented it to her; she would only think him silly if he told. And he _was _being silly, perhaps, but he was always happy to play the fool when it came to his wife.

The business of posting a letter went quickly, and when it was done, John swept a glance over the inside of the post office. Faded advertisements stuck wearily to the walls and windows, and the few posters, sweets, and other goods for sale reeked uniformly of a certain sourness from age. The room itself was gloomy and cramped, musty even, and he promptly decided there was nothing here to properly pay penance for his enjoying the sun in lieu of Anna's company.

Turning himself around, he exited the building and headed towards the bookstore, where he could also count on finding a few interesting trinkets and various knick-knacks that might tickle Anna's fancy. With this thought in mind, he turned a corner — sharper than was his habit, his pace quickening —

_Thud. _If he had been slightly more off-balance, he might have fallen, but John had managed to catch himself in time. The other party, however, was not quite so fortunate.

John stared down at the scrawny little boy, no older than eight or nine, who had taken a hard tumble onto the ground with a surprised grunt. It was difficult to tell if the sandy color of his hair was natural, for it seemed as though a layer of dust — it wasn't grime, _per se_, and so "dust" was the only word John could think of — clung to the boy from head to toe.

"Are you all right?" John briefly wondered if he should reach down and offer the boy a hand; but too late, the young lad had already sprung back onto his feet, brushing himself off and glaring at the tall man defiantly.

"You should watch where you're going, you great big oaf!"

Before John could recover from this surprise, the youth suddenly reared his foot back and gave a fierce kick to the valet's leg, delivering an even greater shock. At least it isn't my lame one, John thought woefully, as sharp pain shot up his limb and made him hiss.

For a moment, the little assailant studied John's face fearfully, but John was far too preoccupied with regaining his composure to notice. Satisfied that no terrifying retribution was to befall him, the boy sulkily turned his face away and began to scan the grounds for — ah, there it was — some object.

The pain was now fading, and John watched with mounting curiosity as the boy gingerly picked up what seemed to be a crude, makeshift airplane, made from snapped tree branches and twigs haphazardly held in place by bits of twine. Judging by its still-intact form, the airplane was surprisingly sturdy in construction.

"'A great big oaf,' was it?" John recalled in a mild tone.

The boy snapped his head up, and this time, John was alert to the alarm in his stare as well as in his defensive, rigid crouch. Reflexively, the valet smiled, hiding his unease. Why was the boy so afraid? Was it the cane? "Hardly proper language for a young man."

The young man in question scrunched up his face in response but said nothing, his tense limbs seemingly ready to spring away at any second.

In the silence that ensued, the two of them regarded each other, sizing each other up: one curious, the other apprehensive.

"What's your name?" John finally asked, as kindly as he could manage.

John's steady, placid manner seemed to be increasingly emboldening the boy. "That's none of your business," he shot back.

A pale, thin woman seemed to materialize out of thin air just then, though of course it was only that John and his new acquaintance had been too engrossed in their little encounter to notice her. She seemed anxious and almost frantic, as if by nature her nerves were in a perpetual process of being torn to shreds.

"Henry!" she called urgently in a lowered voice, making the boy jump and whip his head around to face her. "Where have you been? You'd better get yourself back to the house right this moment!"

Henry — so that was his name — scrambled to his feet, as John allowed himself a smile at the mother's near-comedic timing. The woman, on her part, had by then noticed the large man, dressed impeccably in a modest but neat black-and-brown outfit. "I hope my son hasn't been botherin' you," she said anxiously. Her hair, John noticed, was the ash blond of her son, and the same layer of dust coated her worn clothes and skin.

"Not at all," he reassured her with a smile meant to comfort the woman and a glint of the eyes meant to unsettle the boy. "If anything, I should apologize for having bumped into young Henry here." With a slight emphasis on the name, his eyes flickered to the boy's face, unable to resist a glimpse.

On his part, Henry stared up blankly at John, his face puckered by an unreadable expression.

"You work at Downton Abbey, don't you?" the mother questioned. "I've seen you before, with the other servants in town."

Henry's mouth fell open slightly. An expression of surprise, then.

John nodded, bowing politely. "Yes, I do work at the Abbey. I'm the head valet there." He was beginning to find this entire situation rather amusing — and curious. His two new acquaintances intrigued him. Admittedly, it was hardly surprising for him to find unfamiliar faces in the village, since he was generally so confined to Downton Abbey. Furthermore, as Anna sometimes liked to teasingly point out, John Bates was no social gadfly. A book and his wife were all the company he required.

The mother was visibly flustered now, terrified of having offended someone to whom she apparently attributed great power and influence. "Oh, I'm ever so sorry if Henry has troubled you—" she began to stutter.

"No trouble at all," John said quickly. "I assure you. Please, don't fret on my account." He paused. "I'm John Bates."

Relieved by his words, the mother glanced back at the way she had come, her mind having already shifted to whatever her next worry was. "Well, I'm Louisa, wife to Douglas Stowe, the carpenter," she said with a hurried curtsey, "And this is me son, Henry — and we really had better get going. It was a pleasure to meet you." Her words flew out, empty but well-meant, and John smiled politely in response.

"The pleasure was all mine," he said with a light tip of his bowler, as ever the picture of decorum.

Grabbing her son's hand, Mrs. Stowe fretfully headed off, though Henry could not resist turning around to give John a slick glimpse of his tongue. John chuckled, shaking his head at the child's insolence. He remembered having once been just as young, though not quite scraggy as much as plump (he had, thankfully, grown tall and burly in his adolescent years), with a sharp tongue of his own that he had never fully mastered.

The church bells rang the hour off in the distance, jolting John back to reality. He was beginning to overextend his brief excursion, and he still had to buy that gift of atonement for Anna.

Musing over what he would tell Anna later — well, what _was _there to tell, but that a cheeky boy had tackled and kicked at him, only to be dragged away by his mousy mother? — John set off as briskly as he could manage to the bookstore.

* * *

In the end, John had settled for a pack of scented candles. He was somewhat disappointed with himself for it, but a valet's salary, even with His Lordship's generosity, could accommodate only so much outside the necessary purchases. Besides, he hadn't had the courage to try his luck with the cheaper but decidedly odder goods in the store, particularly when the memory of his last experiment still stung so smartly: John had recently brought home a whistle that promised to chirp like a robin bird — and he and Anna had had a good, startled laugh when it produced a noise vaguely resembling a duck's quack instead. He had, however, then been forced to admit to his horrible taste in impulsive purchases.

"You can't accuse me of not being practical this time."

His wife shook her head, amused. "No, I suppose not." She fingered the package. "It does seem quite random, though. What struck your fancy?"

"I suppose _you_ did."

She rewarded her husband with a kiss for that, just as he had hoped.

"Well, then," she said as she drew back, settling into her chair again, "We may as well light one of them now."

John watched as she withdrew a candle and set it on a holder to light with a match. "It's lavender and chamomile. It should help you sleep."

Reflexively, Anna averted her eyes. So he _had _noticed the other night, when her slumber had been suddenly shattered to pieces by an unexpected return of the nightmares — sometimes, she feared they would never fully disappear.

She noticed John had his gaze fixed on her hand, which had begun nervously rubbing the handle of the candlestick. She willed herself to breathe in deeply, letting the soothing scent fill her lungs. Within seconds, she felt the tremors within her quietening somewhat. Her husband had bought this for her. He was here now, as he always had been, with his gentle smile and a peculiar penchant for showering her with arbitrary gifts. And for a brief moment, she recalled the lavenders he had picked for her all those years ago, to accompany the magnificent dinner tray with which he had furtively furnished her. (She also remembered attempting to imagine their scent, as her nose had been too blocked up to actually smell them, to her chagrin.)

Reaching out her hand, she squeezed John's hand for a moment before letting go. "Well," she said, "Thank you for this."

He only smiled at her in response.

Anna breathed in the scent deeply once more, then slowly released it. "John, do you think—" Hesitant, she looked up to see her husband's eyes crinkle again, an automatic response to the sound of his given name.

"Do I think what?"

She gathered up her courage. "Do you think we'll ever have a child?"

He was taken aback by the sudden question, she could tell. To be quite honest, she herself was not sure where it had come from. But it was a question she had agonized about, on and off, for the past few years.

He still hadn't answered.

"We could go see Dr. Clarkson," she suggested tentatively. "Perhaps he could tell us something, something we could do."

He sighed deeply, a weary sigh that betrayed the amount of thought he, too, must have privately poured into the issue.

At first, they had been cautiously hopeful. In the meantime, what with their attachment to Downton and their busy lives, they had been content — no, happier than either had ever dared to dream — to spend their days with each other. Then the grim incident — neither ever called it anything explicitly, but they never had to — had eclipsed everything else, and it had taken both of them everything they had to claw their way back into some semblance of domestic felicity again.

Frankly, it was still an ongoing process, one Anna sometimes despaired would never end. But it was enough, for now, to keep the shadows at bay as much as possible, and to remind herself that she had survived another day, while _he _had not.

It helped that the monster was dead. She had stopped jumping at every sudden movement and every shadow, and for that at least she was grateful. The vile man walked the earth no more. The suddenness of it all had been alarming at first, but after the shock and spasm of paranoia had worn away, Anna had recovered her wits. It was ludicrous, really, to imagine that her limping husband had managed to sweep into Piccadilly Circle with impeccable and miraculous timing, just in time to happen upon Green; then deftly stage an accidental death, in plain daylight and in public view, with the help of a conveniently timed bus; and to move with enough alacrity and stealth (with his cane!) to avoid notice by anyone in the vicinity, including Green himself; and _then_, finally, to coolly return to Downton without a hair out of place. Furthermore, it was impossible that it had all been so carefully plotted to such meticulous detail, and John was not one to risk so much on luck alone. (Sometimes it troubled her to realize she had needed to rationalize his guiltlessness, rather than relying on her usual faith in him, but she pushed the thought away. But what _had _he been up to, in York?)

On occasion, she liked to imagine Green's death had been brought about by Providence itself, the very wrath of God striking down the basest of men in a spectacular show of divine intervention. The thought gave her a tiny, but welcome, bit of peace.

Her husband had been silent for a long time. "John?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, emerging out of a reverie. "Yes, you're right. We should go see Dr. Clarkson." He smiled gently at her, though Anna sensed his unease. "It wouldn't hurt," he added, mostly for his own benefit.

"Surely we've faced worse than Dr. Clarkson's office, you and I," Anna jested.

This time, his grin was more genuine, lingering into the comfortable silence that followed. Her knee rested against his leg, and her hand had somehow found its way back into his hefty ones, his thumb gently caressing her knuckles, but both were lost in their own thoughts.

"Well, Mr. Bates, I think it's high time we went off to bed."

John blew out the lantern obediently and lumbered to his feet. They began to ascend the stairs, Anna leading the way with the candle.

"By the way," he said, his tone casual, "I ran into a family called the Stowes in the village. Have you heard of them? The husband's a carpenter."

"The Stowes? Yes, they do sound familiar," Anna answered slowly, turning the name over in her mind. "They rather keep to themselves, I think."

"I wonder what that's like."

He heard her chuckle in appreciation of his dry humor. As they climbed the rest of the stairs in silence, John found himself picturing the young boy, with his brazen words and blazing eyes. It was doubtful he would see the boy again, especially in the near future; nevertheless, John could not help but feel once more that he had found a kindred spirit, of sorts, in little Henry Stowe.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ****Thank you so much for all your responses so far! I look forward to crafting my future chapters from your feedback. **The general idea of this fic is that each chapter will _roughly _represent 1 episode of Banna in a Downton season. Also, I think the pace will pick up soon. (Remember, S4 of DA started off with 2 fluffy episodes, before the you-know-what hit the fan...)  


**My undying gratitude goes to the keen eyes of _Awesomegreentie_, who has refused my offer of my yet-to-be firstborn child as a token of my gratitude and so must settle for this public shout-out. ALSO, a huge round of applause is reserved for _bugs_, who deserves a shrine in her honor for all her sharp insights, wisdom, and other Many Thoughts on my writing, among other things. **

**A quick note: I can't guarantee that Dr. Clarkson is the most well-informed of doctors, though certainly well-intentioned... (OK, Adams, stop talking now.)  
**

* * *

Dr. Clarkson knew of the Bates', of course, having served Downton and its inhabitants for the greater part of his life, but he could not recall ever having received either of them in his office. But then again, they both struck him as the type to consider a visit to the hospital only in times of the direst need.

"You understand that science — medicinal science, that is — has not advanced to a point that these things can be determined with exactitude," he gently reminded, peering at the married couple with his habitual, cautious squint.

John was suddenly seized by an urge to leave; he felt he already knew everything he had come to discover. But the weight of Anna's hand in his, clasped tightly across his lap, kept him seated.

"Yes, we understand," she said, for once the more poised of the two.

The doctor leaned forward and began to speak again, deliberately and apologetically. He prided himself on his commitment to the plain, hard truth, but that did not ease the burden of delivering unwelcome news. "But I feel it within my duty to caution you to be prepared for the worst, given your age—" he nodded at Anna "—and your history." He nodded at John.

"You mean, I've been married twice and have yet to produce a child," John said drily.

Dr. Clarkson gave him a long, significant look. "Precisely."

"So, you mean — we probably won't be having a child," Anna said with a shake of her head, her lips tightly pursed.

"It's not… impossible. But I'm afraid the chances are very low."

John clenched Anna's hand tightly at the statement. He could hardly breathe, but he was determined to hide his current state of mind from both his wife and the physician. "Is there nothing we can do?" he heard himself asking, his voice steady and soft.

Dr. Clarkson eyed them for a moment, hesitant, before opening his mouth. "If I might be so bold as to speak openly…" He trailed off delicately.

"It's all right, Dr. Clarkson," Anna jumped in. "We servants are made of hardier stuff than His Lordship." John gave a stiff smile in response.

"Well, there are certain theories that particular times of the month are… more conducive to conceiving."

It took both John and Anna a moment to absorb this new information. Then they stared at each other blankly, neither really knowing how to react, as the doctor allowed himself an imperceptible sigh. It was amazing, indeed, how little anyone knew about the intricacies of the human reproductive system; even what he knew, as a doctor, was tentative at best. In polite but precise terms, he briefly sketched out his instructions to the couple.

"Thank you, Dr. Clarkson," Anna finally said, privately wondering what was running through her husband's mind, beneath his stony exterior. She gathered herself and stood up. "We much appreciate your time."

"Not at all," the physician replied, rising to his feet.

Wordlessly, John grabbed his cane and nodded at Dr. Clarkson with a courteous smile — what a pleasant smile that man has, the doctor thought with some degree of surprise — before following his wife out the door.

Anna hooked her arm through John's, who instinctively bent his elbow to accommodate her, but neither spoke a word as they ambled across the hospital courtyard.

"Mr. Bates…"

John gazed down at his wife, whose eyes twinkled with a mixture of mirth and concern.

"You're brooding again."

He chuckled in response, more out of appreciation for his wife than genuine amusement. "I suppose I am." Glancing up at the gateway just then, he caught a slight movement as something quickly vanished out of sight. Someone walking out of view, he supposed, though he could not remember having seen anyone in front of them.

"I wish you'd just say what's on your mind, for once," Anna said, sighing. He shot a quick glance at her, recognizing the exasperation in her tone. It wasn't the first time she had expressed this frustration with him by any means, but lately it had been growing sharper and more frequent in nature.

They had reached the gate and stepped out into the street, bustling with its fair share of people. His mind spinning to think of a reply to his wife, John scanned the street, simultaneously hoping to catch sight of whoever might have just walked out from the same gateway. But no suspects presented themselves.

Shrugging off his curiosity, he turned his head to face Anna and was opening his mouth to speak, when — something just within his line of vision caught his attention.

He broke free of Anna's arm and hastily limped over to a tree, peering behind it. Young Henry looked up at him sheepishly, his hair and clothes as dusty as ever. His toy wasn't within sight. "Hello," John greeted, his smile and tone betraying his delighted surprise, "Master Henry Stowe, was it?"

Young Master Stowe nodded as he crossed his arms. "And you're John Bates, valet to the earl."

The valet could not seem to stop grinning down at the boy. "That's right. You've got quite the memory," he said, pleased at having been remembered.

"Who's this?" Anna's lips were already curled up in an anticipatory smile.

John cocked his head towards the boy. "This is Henry Stowe, from the village. We had a bit of a run-in earlier this week." He turned to face Henry again. "Henry, I'd like to present my wife, Mrs. Bates."

"How do you do, Henry," Mrs. Bates said on cue, shooting her husband a sly, amused look.

The child paused for a moment to give her a nervous look over, but it was to John that he blurted out, "I wasn't following you, I swear!"

"Why would I think you were?" John asked in mock astonishment. Then, to the surprise of both his wife and the boy, John knelt to the ground, his hand slipping into his pocket and his eyes steady on the youth. "Actually, I'm glad I caught you."

Henry flinched and stumbled back a step, eyeing John's hidden hand. "Why? What is it?"

"Here." John drew his lightly fisted hand towards Henry, whose eyes were growing by the moment. I wish he weren't so afraid of me, the man thought to himself, as he opened his palm and spoke in the gentlest tone he could muster. "I bought this for you, as an apology for running you into the ground."

In his palm lay a miniature replica of a Bristol Fighter. It was well-proportioned, painted, and even complete with propellers, if a little crudely built. Its body had been carved out of a single piece of wood, it seemed, and had the rough, rounded quality of such wooden toys. But the unknown craftsman had thoughtfully replaced the delicate wings with sturdy sheets of metal, and the nose of the propeller gleamed brightly and proudly as well.

For an instant, Henry was like any other child, discovering the unforgettable joy of an unexpected gift. He gasped at its sight, his face flushing. But then he looked up, his eyes clouded with an uncertainty and apprehension that aged him. Here, again, was the strange volatility that had piqued John's curiosity at their first meeting. The child was petulant and aggressive at times — then fearful and hesitant in the next instant. This constant nervous energy perturbed John, though he couldn't say why.

"Take it. It's yours," he said.

All three of them held their breath — though none of them were conscious of it — as Henry reached out slowly and, with a last searching look at John's face, gingerly picked up the plane. "Does it fly?"

"Not exactly," John replied as he used his cane to stand up again, "But try pulling on that string there, by the tail. Gently… Now, let it go."

The propeller whirred into action, spinning about exuberantly and triumphantly for a few seconds before coming to a gradual stop. Henry's eyes shone.

"You might say thank you," Anna said, breaking the silence. She had been watching her husband interact with the child with an odd, bemused smile on her face.

Henry glanced up at his tall benefactor, his face a curious blank, and both John and Anna sensed that the boy was neither used to expressions of gratitude nor being told to say them.

Then, with a sudden, embarrassed exclamation of "Thank you!" Henry turned on his heels and took off, his new acquisition in tow.

Always an element of surprise to that boy, John mused, watching Henry disappear out of sight. He then congratulated himself on his successful purchase of the toy. Meeting Henry in town had been fortuitous, indeed. There had been something about the boy's makeshift airplane from their earlier encounter, presumably crafted by the child's own clumsy but eager hands, that had lingered in John's mind that day. In the bookstore, it had then seamlessly merged with the memory of a book John's own uncle had once bought him, a long time ago. A collection of the strange, fascinating tales of Greek mythological heroes and gods, the book had been the first non-primer book young John had been able to fully call his own; it was one of his few treasured possessions even now. Such thoughts had inspired him to act on an utter whim that day in the bookstore, pocketing the plane after its purchase.

"Mr. Bates, I believe you've got yourself an admirer."

John smiled. "I thought he would give me a kick in the shins again," he remarked.

"I suppose you bought that for him when you bought those candles for me earlier."

He nodded. "I don't know what prompted me to buy it. I didn't think I'd actually manage to give it to him." At this point, he felt obliged to provide his feeble excuse for having bought the item nonetheless. "I thought I would end up passing it onto you to give to Master George."

"I must say," she said, puckering her lips together in an effort to contain her grin, "It's quite a present to buy for someone you didn't think you'd even get to pass it on to."

He chuckled as he took her arm in his again and began walking down the street, the visit to Dr. Clarkson temporarily banished from their minds. "Why, are you jealous?"

"Well, you've never given _me _an airplane before."

They were entering the quieter outskirts of the village, with no one in sight. Struck by a spark of mischief, John swung his wife around a parked automobile (even sleepy Downton was not immune to the indomitable tidal wave of modernity), which conveniently hid them from potential would-be spectators. "But I've given you other gifts — doesn't that count for something?" And to demonstrate, he gave her a chaste peck on the lips as she giggled.

"Now, that's enough of that," Anna admonished. "Or you'll cause a scandal in the village."

John obediently drew back with a mischievous grin, and they continued on their way. A faint chill hung in the air, reluctant to depart even after the wearying, long winter, but it went unnoticed by the couple; any time spent together outdoors tended to afford them both enough pleasure and warmth to ignore anything but the harshest of weather. And besides, today was, all in all, warmer than it had been in months.

John felt utterly at peace with himself, though he wasn't conscious of it. His thoughts lingered instead on the soft tread of his wife's shoes, and the smart tilt of her hat. He had a particular fondness for her hair, in its every shape and arrangement: when it was down and braided, as at night; when it was piled into a hat and concealed from view, as now; when it was pulled tightly into a neat bun, as during the work day; and when she let it tumble down loose, his favorite of them all.

"I didn't know you were fond of children." Her voice broke through the silence.

"I didn't, either," John admitted, emerging from his thoughts. "That is, I like them enough, but I don't know what to do with them."

"Well, _I_ think you'd make a wonderful father."

She had uttered the words casually. But their implication was at once painfully clear to both, and the memory of the doctor's visit returned in a rush.

"Do you?" he flashed her a smile, one she recognized as being forced. "That's good to know."

She tried to search his face for a hint of his true sentiments. "You do want children, don't you?"

"Of course." He frowned, as though he could not understand the source of her her confusion. "You know I do." But seeing that his wife did not seem completely convinced — how she read him so easily, he still did not know, and marveled at it — John admitted, "I didn't always. I barely thought of it, when I was with…" He trailed off, the unspoken name hanging between them. "But I do want them, with you. I always have. It would be a dream."

She seemed more than satisfied with his answer this time, though there was not a little tang of sadness in his words now.

They lapsed into an uneasy silence, each lost in thought. Truly, he had not questioned his childlessness throughout his first marriage — had even, on occasion, thanked the heavens for it. But now it began to feel like a heavy curse, yet another deficiency that marred his worthiness of his wife…

"It must be my fault," John said out loud.

She might have guessed. Anna gave a sigh, then came to a stop to face him squarely. His shoulders had the characteristic hunch of a man burdened with a weight too great for him to bear, and she longed, as she always did, to lighten his load for him. She reached up to his face and stroked his cheek, ever so gently, feeling him press into her hand as he took comfort in her touch.

"I've deprived you of the chance to be a mother." His words were both dejected and utterly convinced.

"It might be my fault."

His response was quick, emphatic. "That's impossible."

She took his hands in hers with a firm set of her mouth and the faintest hint of a twinkle in her eyes. "Mr. Bates, why are you so determined to blame yourself for everything?" she demanded in affectionate exasperation. "And do you honestly believe, after all we've been through, that I would love you any less, whatever Dr. Clarkson says?"

"No, but that's not—"

"I'm happy exactly as I am, right at this moment." She gave his hands a squeeze. "As we are."

His shoulders relaxed, and his fingers roamed over hers affectionately as he finally smiled back in return. "As am I."

They seemed to lean in at the same exact time — it was always difficult to tell which of them had moved first, as the other naturally followed so soon after — and they kissed again, this time neither caring a whit if anyone could see them.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to bugs and awesomegreentie, as always, for their sharp eyes and keen input! If anything feels a bit off, that's entirely my fault (and you should let me know) - I've been much too busy and sleep-deprived to be at my 100%, I'm afraid, but I didn't want to wait any longer to update.  
**

* * *

The head valet of Downton Abbey, personal valet to the Earl of Grantham, took great pride and pleasure in dressing himself every morning. He could never tire of it, as monotonous and invariable as the process was: the feel of sliding his smooth, newly-ironed trousers on; the snug layers of his uniform encasing him within, one by one; the stiff collar, upright and secure; the polished sheen of the fob chain, looped carefully through a buttonhole and disappearing into his pocket; and the buttons themselves, shined and buffed to a respectable luster. Everything was meticulously done, immaculate when finished.

To John Bates, it meant order. Discipline. Control. A long time ago, the strict routines, rules, and regulations of the military had kept the chaos at bay. And when that had crumbled, he had gradually — finally — regained his sense of law and order in the age-old traditions that sustained the world of English aristocracy.

The pleasure he took in this first task of the day and in the unchanging routine of his duties at the manor, as well as the comfort that came with the sense of gratification, had only intensified twice-fold in each of his returns to Downton after an extended absence: following his stint at the Red Lion, then again at his return from prison.

He gave his tie one last tug as he studied his reflection in the mirror critically. Then, dusting off the invisible pieces of lint and dust on his sleeves, he turned to face his wife.

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Bates?"

Something about her tone alerted him to trouble. "Certainly."

"I won't ask it again, but I can't seem to get it out of my mind."

That sounded ominous. His heart thudded in his chest as his mind worked furiously to predict her next words. Had he forgotten to wash the teacups before retiring to bed again? Or perhaps some task she had assigned him to do had slipped his mind…

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Won't you tell me what you were up to, in York?"

His heart sank. There had been a few trips to York in the past year alone, but there was only one she could have been referring to. It was the one she had often been curious about, and incidentally the one of which he could not reveal a detail.

Stalling, he feigned innocence with a frown. "You'll have to be more specific. I've been to York many —"

Her tone was impatient, clipped. "Last spring, the day before the bazaar. The day Mr. Green died. What were you up to that day?" The words rushed out in an unstoppable torrent, pouring into the atmosphere and spreading about; then they hung, terrible and irretrievable, thickening the air between them.

But he had not yet comprehended her tacit accusation, for three words were ringing loudly in his ears. "Mr. Green, dead?" he dumbly repeated.

She seemed taken aback by his reaction. "Yes, dead. They say he was hit by a bus, in Piccadilly…" Now her words came faltering and unsure, matching the mounting bewilderment on her husband's face. If he really were innocent — neither she nor Mrs. Hughes had found an excuse to mention it to John, and Lord Gillingham had not yet returned to Downton for an overnight visit to show off his new valet…

He could not have known. He _hadn't_ known. Her head swam.

In the meantime, the accusations had finally begun to strike home. "And you thought… You didn't think that _I _—" He paused. But for the first time in their long relationship, Anna did not jump in to defend him, to swear her unswerving faith in him.

The realization was crushing.

"How could you think that of me?" He spoke in a pained, hoarse whisper — he could not trust his voice at the moment.

_But how could she not? _a quiet voice said in his mind, disturbingly clear and disassociated from his muddled train of thoughts. After all, _he _knew the extent of his own rage and darkness — he knew what he was capable of. It had been, perhaps, only a matter of time for her to see it as well.

Anna was stricken with guilt and horror as the apparent truth of the situation sank in. "You asked him where he lived in London," she said in a shrinking voice, stumbling over her words and wringing her hands. "And the way you looked at him — I knew you knew — and you were gone for so long that day, _that very same day_, and without telling anyone what you'd been up to…"

His heart was breaking. They both sensed it, and she frantically, desperately wished she could take it all back. A single minute. If she could turn back time to just a minute ago, she would be content to never again wish for anything else.

"Well," he finally said, his voice full of resignation and carrying a hint of bitterness, "At least you've admitted it was him."

She could no longer bear it. This was not her — this could not be what their years of trust and love had been reduced down to. The shame and horror of it all clogged her throat, fogged her senses. She walked briskly out of the room then, leaving John to stare after her with a broken, crushed look.

* * *

But old habits were hard to break. Despite the awkwardness hovering over them for the past few days, the married couple continually found themselves slipping into their usual routine.

"Would you care to accompany me into the village, m'lady?" He extended his arm toward her, playing the perfect gentleman to his lady.

"I'd be honored to, Mr. Bates." Grinning, she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

There was hardly an element of surprise in his offer, as the two of them had long been planning to accompany the other servants to the annual fair, but they nevertheless relished these little jests of feigned formality.

The housekeeper bustled into view just then, coming from the servant's hall entrance. "What, you're still here? The others have set out already."

"Aren't you joining us, Mrs. Hughes?" John asked.

She shook her head. "Well," she sighed in good-humored resignation, "Someone's got to keep Mr. Carson company, and I've got Saturday's menu to plan with Mrs. Patmore." Her eyes regarded them with an affectionate gleam in her eyes. "Well then, off you go."

The pair took this as their cue to depart, trading amused glances with each other as they headed out the building.

Outside, the air was cool and damp, a fog beginning to settle with the onset of nighttime, and an occasional wind came to nip at their faces. But it was a welcome and refreshing alternative to the stagnant, trapped air of the Abbey's downstairs hallways, as well as the frosty bite of a Yorkshire winter.

Anna breathed the air in deeply, and as she did so, she felt the uneasy tension settle back in between them, especially as the silence stretched on. She had tried to apologize on the same day of her horrific confession, the words of her most desperate and profuse apology balanced on the tip of her tongue, but he had impatiently waved her words away before walking away himself.

And still he did not say what his business in York had been.

With the years of constant company shared between them, it had been thus far a surprisingly easy task to go on as they always had. Even Mrs. Hughes' keen eyes had spotted nothing unusual, nothing that she commented on anyway, and Anna herself knew there was nothing left on earth to break the foundations of their love or jeopardize their marriage.

Still, all was not well. She had sensed the return of a certain glibness, a lighthearted superficiality that felt familiar, in John's manner. It was his coping mechanism, the wall of defense thrown around himself to hide the brooding man within; he joked merrily, flashed his most winning smile, and engaged her enthusiastically in their usual gossip and talk — but she knew it was all a show.

She had first seen the same smile all those years ago, the night she had taken up a tray of food to comfort him: with all hope for his future gone, his eyes still red from his weeping, he had smiled obligingly and assured her he would be fine. She had seen glimpses of it again since then, not the least in the days following her move back into the cottage. Both of them had been engaged in a furious wrestle in those dark days, within and without, to forget the impossible. She shuddered at the memory. Would the shadows never leave completely?

If only, she thought, he would let her apologize and explain herself — or if he would at least _say _something, and tell her what he was thinking.

Despite the fresh air, Anna was beginning to feel suffocated. She had to break the silence. "Mr. Carson hasn't been feeling well lately," she commented lightly.

He glanced at her. "Hasn't he? I hadn't noticed."

"It's his heart again. And I suppose he's getting on in years, now. Some of us downstairs think it's time he started taking it easy."

"What, and let Mr. Barrow take over? God help us." There was always a hint of sarcasm every time either of them said the under-butler's new name out loud. "I suppose there's always Molesley. He _is _a trained butler after all."

She paused, gathering her words. "Well, what if _you_ were to take over?"

Her husband stopped in his tracks to look down at her incredulously. The thought had apparently never struck him before.

Realizing she was in earnest after all, he resumed walking. "I doubt Mr. Carson would find it appropriate to have a lame, former convicted criminal running the distinguished household." His voice was full of that deceptive lightheartedness again. "But thank you for suggesting it."

Anna did not think anyone — anyone who mattered, that is — minded his limp or past misfortunes any longer, but she decided to let the matter drop. It had, after all, only been an attempt at making casual conversation.

On his part, John dolefully wondered if his wife had decided once and for all to give up on their precious but aged dream of buying and running a hotel on their own. He had never formally extinguished its possibility – it meant too much to him. It had kept him warm, and comforted, during the long, dull days in prison and the unending, desolate nights; the dream had too strong a hold on his nostalgia and gratitude to be so simply let go. But perhaps he was being too stubborn.

Again, Anna was the one to break the renewed silence between them as they drew closer to the fair, its flurry of excitement beginning to stir up a girlish eagerness within herself. "You don't suppose they'd have any ice cream, do you? I've been hankering for a taste since our visit to the shore last year."

John looked down at his wife with a smile. "That's a long time to pine for ice cream."

"Well, as my mum used to say," she said, her eyes distractedly scanning the festival up ahead, "Good things come to those who wait."

His gaze remained locked on her. "A wise woman."

Then they were plunged into the midst of it all: colorful booths, stalls, and tents everywhere — full of games, refreshments, rare wonders of the world (available for viewing at tuppence a person), and merchandise of all kinds, with children and adults alike flush in their thrill. A lively jingle from one booth overlapped with the music of an overeager fiddler in another corner, creating a cacophony that added to the jangling energy of the scene. Pungent smells and fresh scents overlapped, as even did the sights, so that one could not decisively tell what was what. It all teetered on the edge of overwhelming one's senses.

"Mr. Bates! Mr. Bates!" A high-pitched voice pierced through the air. They both turned at the sound, straining to pinpoint its location.

Anna was the first to spot him in the crowd. "Isn't that young Henry Stowe?"

Then the boy himself was before them, his cheeks red with excitement. "Hullo."

John bent down towards Henry, lest his voice be lost to the noise. "Good evening, Henry. Isn't your mother with you?"

The child shrugged, an impatient and dismissive gesture, and eyed Anna's tight hold on her husband's arms curiously, biding his time. He seemed to have suddenly clammed up, though neither John nor Anna could make out an apparent cause for it.

Seized by this mysterious bout of embarrassment, Henry toed the ground and continued to stand in silence.

"Well?" Anna interjected, her tone both kind and commanding. "You look like you've got something to say. Spit it out."

At this, Henry looked up again — as a matter of fact, she was startled to see him actually _glaring _at her — but then his gaze shifted to John and softened. "I haven't got any money, and Mam won't give me any," he finally blurted out. He peered up hopefully through his dusty blond locks, his hat only barely clinging to the top of his head.

Mr. and Mrs. Bates regarded each other and echoed each other's surprised laugh, causing Henry to blush even deeper.

"You're not one to beat about the bush, are you?" Anna said with a grin, unable to contain herself. This time, she matched the boy's scowl with a playful one of her own.

John reached into his pocket. "I'm not made of money, Master Stowe, and I don't owe you an apology this time." At that moment, he caught sight of Henry's shoes, every visible seam fraying and straining to hold the fabrics together, and the toes bulging at the tips. Clearly, the shoes were long overdue for a replacement pair — and just as clear was the fact that the Stowes could not afford it. Of course, John suddenly reflected, affluence was always in the eyes of the beholder.

He glanced at the child's crestfallen face and felt himself cave in. "Choose wisely — I'll grant you one purchase, and one thing only."

The effect was immediate. Henry beamed brightly and sprang back to life. "Follow me," he said, dashing off into the crowds and disappearing from sight, spurring the couple into hurried pursuit.

"Is this wise?"

John scanned the bustle ahead for a glimpse of Henry. "Oh, he'll just want to play a game, or buy a pack of sweets. Surely we can spare that."

She just rolled her eyes in response, though a smile floated up to the ends of her mouth. Resolving to curb her husband's careless spending habits had been a hopeless task from the start — denying him the pleasure he found in his little gifts, especially when he could be so sweet about it, was impossible.

But it was not a game booth or a sweets stall that finally stopped Henry. John and Anna almost stumbled into the boy as he stood gaping at a modest collection of worn, used books in a nondescript stall, presided over by an aging man snoring in a nearby chair. Anna shot her husband a surprised look, which he reciprocated.

With a curious mixture of hesitancy and certainty, Henry picked out a dusty thick volume, _A Manual on the Principles and Application of Aerodynamics_, and held it up. Anna took it and flipped through the pages, angling the book to allow John a glimpse of the contents. The text was small, dry, and dense, with the occasional diagram or sketch to illustrate the mechanical processes denoted within.

"I'm sure _I_ couldn't read any of this, much less…" She looked down at the boy. "Are you quite sure it's this you want?"

Henry nodded, impatience and stubbornness ingrained in every shake of his chin. "Yes, it's what I want."

Anna turned to her husband to gauge his response, but he had already turned to the slumbering old man. "Excuse me."

With a startled snort, the man shook himself awake. "Yes?" he croaked, his eyes bleary and slow to focus.

"I'd like to purchase this volume for the young man. How much is it?"

The book quickly found its way back to its new owner, who clutched his new possession to himself with great rapture. Sighing, the old man sank back into his chair and tilted his head back, his role now concluded.

John watched Henry for a few seconds, the vestiges of his childhood memories pulling at the corners of his conscience. He chuckled lightly. "What have we told you about saying thanks?" he chided the boy, who seemed happily preoccupied with the mere presence of the book in his arms.

Henry looked up, a flash of rebellion in his eyes. But then he seemed to visibly deflate. "Thank you," he grumbled.

"Where's your mum and dad?" Anna said. "Won't they be missing you?"

"No, they won't," he said, sulky and defiant, before turning to John. "Can't I come along with you for a bit? I promise not to be a bother."

John was quick to reply, plowing over Anna's hesitation before she had a chance to say anything. "We'll look for your mum together. But I don't see why we can't have some fun in the meantime." His eyes crinkled, but they sought his wife's permission as he spoke.

Sighing, she rolled her eyes good-naturedly for the second time that evening. "Oh, all right," she acquiesced. "But let's keep a sharp eye out."

She moved to take a hold of John's arm again, but to her surprise, she found herself thwarted by Henry, who moved with astonishing deftness to place himself squarely between her and her husband.

Anna exchanged a look with John before studying the boy curiously, trying to divine if he had intercepted her on purpose, but he only hugged the book to himself and kept his eyes trained on the ground. For a child, Anna privately concluded as the three of them began walking, Henry Stowe was sometimes as indecipherable as the fully grown man striding beside him. In any case, she was only too happy to sense that John was thoroughly distracted and amused.

It was difficult to divine, for the next hour or so, who was the child and who the adult out of the three. Thanks to Henry's protective hold on his bulky manual, John's wallet was spared the cost of _two _sets of rounds at every game booth (despite his injunction, he would have been easily coerced into additional expenditure on the boy's behalf), for Anna, in a rediscovery of her younger days, insisted on trying her hand at everything they came across.

On his part, John was only too happy to watch her mostly-futile attempts at winning the prizes, though she did eventually manage to win — more thanks to a note stealthily snuck into the booth keeper's hand than her accuracy in throwing objects — a small, misshapen teddy bear. She kindly offered it to Henry and was brusquely rejected, prompting her to gleefully name it "John" and bestow it upon her husband as his lookalike. He laughed, accepting both the jest and the gift.

Soon enough, all three of the group had consigned to oblivion their original mission of finding Mr. and Mrs. Stowe, who were nowhere to be found among the festivities.

Instead, they found Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter seated at a wooden table near the ice cream stall, chatting and trading shy smiles with each other. Anna hesitated at the thought of interrupting them, knowing all too well the preciousness of a private moment, but John had already engaged the attention of the nearby vendor, forcing her to acknowledge their friends.

Leaving her two companions behind, she approached the other servants with a simple greeting and took a seat across from them, engaging them in conversation. Miss Baxter was quick to notice Henry. "Who's the boy standing with Mr. Bates?"

"Oh, that's Henry Stowe, the carpenter's son. He and Mr. Bates have been forming a friendship as of late," Anna explained. "Though I don't think he fancies _me_ very much."

The other lady's maid smiled in return, but Mr. Molesley's face had grown troubled. "I'm sorry, but did you say Stowe?"

"Yes, what about it?"

He glanced about nervously before leaning in. "Well," he muttered, "His father has a certain reputation in the village. Ever since he came back from the war, that is."

A foreboding feeling began to creep over Anna.

"What do you mean?" Miss Baxter asked, polite but curious.

Mr. Molesley hesitated. "Oh, it's just rumors, nothing _proven_, but…" He was nervous and solemn, studying the others' faces for a moment before reluctantly parting with his next words. "If you're smart, you'll stay away from the man. They say Douglas Stowe" – here, he shook his head for emphasis – "Is not one to meddle with."

* * *

**Oh, and since I'll be out of the country for the next 2 weeks... I apologize in advance for a delay in the next update. I'll be working on the drafts in the meantime, though!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I did warn you... but sorry anyway for the delay! My personal life has gotten more, er, exciting lately. At least it's a longer chapter than usual...?  
**

**I'd like to thank bugs and awesomegreentie for their meticulous, wonderful beta-readin' skills. Any errors you may notice are completely my own, as I edited much of this while peering at a small screen on the other side of the globe, with my English skills quickly deteriorating... And lastly, I'd like to thank anyone who's taken the time to review! I appreciate each and every one.  
**

* * *

As the two lady's maids were being regaled with the local gossip, John Bates and Henry Stowe stood a few yards away, gravely pondering their options in a weighty decision that could conceivably inspire regret for years to come.

Vanilla was the safe choice, John thought, with its mild sweetness and general popularity. But Anna was so fond of strawberries, which had just come into season and had not crossed the servants' dining table as of yet this year. Then there was the irresistible sweet-and-sour tang of lemon ice cream…

Henry was the first to break free of the paralysis of indecision, choosing to go with strawberry. After another moment of hesitation, John was goaded by the vendor's impatient sigh into the same choice. If she didn't like it, John consoled himself, he would take it and buy her another one.

While he waited for the ice cream, his eyes roamed with a will of their own back to his wife. She was absorbed in conversation, a stern frown – one he privately found quite endearing – etched on her face.

Unbeknownst to him, a smile drifted into John's eyes and played on his lips as he enjoyed this rare opportunity. She was always close at hand, and then always interacting with him, that he hadn't noticed until now how rarely he had the pleasure of observing her from a distance. Such discoveries of little pleasures dotted his life with Anna even now, twelve years after the first of many shared smiles.

"Do you love her?" Henry's voice was solemn, an odd contrast to the image of a child licking his cone.

The question posed was strange, but its answer was simple. "Very much."

Both of them now peered across at Anna, who remained oblivious to the attention she was attracting. "I'm very fortunate to have her."

"I don't see what you're on about," Henry said peevishly. "She's plain enough to me. Me mam's loads prettier."

John thought rather differently, and in fact felt very strongly about it, but he made an effort to accommodate a child's natural prejudice. "Well, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

Henry's response was to scowl and stick his tongue out. But the effect was tempered by the pink ice cream coating it, and John chuckled lightly before leading the way.

"Anna." She turned to find her husband, handing her an ice cream cone and taking a seat beside her. "It's strawberry," he said with a hint of anxiety.

"It's perfect. Thank you. But didn't you get yourself one?"

_I was hoping you'd share. _The words stuck in his throat, however, at the sight of the others. "I'm all right," he replied instead, turning to introduce Henry to Mr. Molesley and Mrs. Baxter.

They were eyeing the boy with a peculiar interest, he noticed, and Anna's frown had returned and settled back into a wrinkle between her brows. On the whole, there was a barely discernible tension in the air.

"I think we need to get you back to your mum," John informed the boy, who had managed to wedge himself onto the seat on John's other side. The book lay on the table, a victim to a child's fickle passions, and temporarily overshadowed by the already half-diminished cold treat.

Then Henry said something that unsettled the adults present. "Can't I just go home and live with you?"

He had spoken with such simple earnestness, as though it were the easiest thing in the world to abandon his family and adopt a new one. Perhaps to him, it was.

"No, I'm afraid not," John responded after an awkward pause.

The four servants burned with questions, but none of them knew how to form them into actual words.

Finally, Anna tried to salvage the situation. "I love strawberries. Don't you?"

Henry's answering glance was unrewarding, even reproachful. "They're all right," he said coolly, cutting off her conciliatory attempts with great efficiency.

As Henry then regally returned his attention back to his ice cream, Anna sneaked her husband an exasperated shrug.

"YOU LITTLE BEAST." The sudden roar ripped through the air, making everyone at the table jump and look about. A wiry, bearded man was heading towards them, rage burning in his eyes. He had a tight grip on a terrified woman John recognized instantly as Mrs. Stowe. She seemed even more anxious than he had seen her before, and for good reason. Her husband looked prepared to wage war.

Rising to his feet, John felt a slight bump as Henry ran to take shelter behind his back, the cone dropped and forgotten on the grass.

But Douglas Stowe had already spotted his son.

"I'LL TEACH YOU TO RUN FROM YOUR MAM LIKE THAT," he bellowed as he drew nearer, oblivious to all the attention he was beginning to attract. His expression was stormy, his reddened eyes seething, and there was a certain wobbliness to his movements with which John was all too familiar. He quickly summed up Mr. Stowe's condition from his teetering steps, as well as the reckless words that came flying out with a liquid abandon of inhibition.

Sensing danger, John grabbed his cane and straightened himself to his full height. He could feel Henry's little hands gripping his sides tightly, and he could hear the boy's heavy breathing. It occurred to John that this child knew, more than anyone else at this table, what was about to happen.

Mr. Stowe's voice mercifully dropped to an angry, nearly incomprehensible growl. "Get over here, you useless rat. No son of mine – A right little bastard – An embarrassment to the family—"

He was now face-to-face with John, who stood just about two inches taller than the irate man.

Mr. Stowe peered up at the valet with squinted, straining eyes. "Who are _you_?" Then he shook his head impatiently. "No, never mind. Move," he hissed, swiping at John's bulk. "Let me at him."

Louisa Stowe clung to her husband's arms desperately, but he shook her off with an impatient movement.

"He's very frightened, Mr. Stowe." John's tone was mild, though his stiff refusal to budge betrayed his steely attitude. "He simply lost track of time with us, that's all."

"Yes," Anna jumped in, her eyes darting from the seething drunkard to her husband, then to the trembling Mrs. Stowe. "We tried to help him look for his mum and dad, but you weren't anywhere..." She trailed off. "We're very sorry to have caused you such trouble."

Hardly in a state of mind to heed words, Mr. Stowe stumbled, then reached around John to grab a fistful of his son's hair, yanking him into view. "You sly little tosser. Hiding behind strangers, like it'll do you any good."

Henry yelped, but struggled very little.

John felt his anger begin to climb, everything but the boy and the man before him slowly fading from his awareness. "Now, wait a moment." He gripped his cane tightly.

"Douglas—" Mrs. Stowe started, eyeing the others skittishly.

"You shut your mouth," came the bitter retort. "Or I'll—" Mr. Stowe suddenly seemed to really take note of his company then, his squint returning to take stock of their appearance. "Who _are _you?"

John only glared, his fury beginning to simmer over.

"They work at the Abbey," his wife muttered urgently. "They work for the earl."

That gave Mr. Stowe some pause, but he soon resumed his air of bravado and brash swagger. "Bugger that," he said. "What are they doing with my son – holding him for ransom?" He gave a fierce tug at his son, who yelped in pain. "Shut up, I tell you!"

John saw red. Before he knew it, he had reached out to grasp the man's arm, giving it a powerful enough shake to force Douglas Stowe to release his son with a grimace. "That's no way to treat a child."

"What the 'ell? He's my _son_."

This time, John saw stars. He felt his head swing roughly to the right. Then the ground was rising up to meet him at full force, the left side of his face reverberating in pain.

"John!" he heard Anna cry out in horror, followed by the others' startled exclamations.

"Nobody tells me what to do with me own flesh and blood," a voice growled. "Now, come on, the both of you, before you shame me any further."

Then there was a yelp, a thud, and three rapid sets of footsteps fading off.

Two pairs of hands helped him up. Anna's distressed expression swam into view for a moment, as did the way her two hands clutched and kneaded each other.

"Are you badly hurt, Mr. Bates?" Mr. Molesley's concerned question floated its way slowly into John's head.

He shook his head. Bad idea. It seemed as though he could feel everything sloshing about in his skull. His ears were still ringing, too. "No. Just a bruise, I think."

"Mrs. Bates?" It was Miss Baxter's voice this time, wafting through the air. "Are you all right?"

Anna sounded startled. "Yes, I'm fine." He tried to find her face, just in time to see her purse her lips in redirected concentration. "I should take him back right away. We could use some of the ice from Mrs. Patmore's kitchen to stop the swelling." Her voice trembled slightly, he would later recall.

Then somebody slung his arm around Anna's shoulders – he almost laughed out loud at the sudden mental image of his tiny wife supporting his weight back to the Abbey. "That's all right, I can walk on my own," he said. Indeed, now that both his feet were planted squarely on the ground, he was beginning to regain his sense and balance.

Anna placed his cane back into his welcoming grasp. "Here, let's go together."

John nodded and began to walk slowly, his wife hovering by his side.

Miss Baxter glanced at her companion, who was looking after the pair with a frown. "Should we call the police?" he fretted.

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully, and not a little sadly. "They might stick him behind bars for a few days, but… where would that leave his wife and son?"

Mr. Molesley's frown became more pronounced as they both let out a sigh.

* * *

He could tell she was troubled. It was in the way she sighed as she closed the door on their way out of the cottage, and it was in the way her gaze flickered past him multiple times as they talked over breakfast. Her anxious ministrations in treating his bruises last night had kept both of them busy, but the night had evidently provided her an unwelcome opportunity for thoughts. She was lost in them now.

The first few hours of the day flew by in a flurry of frenzied activity, as always, and it wasn't until after lunch that he found her submerged in the shadows of the boot room, scrubbing away furiously at shoes that, to the casual eye, seemed as unused and clean as any new pair in a store window. But it was hard to tell, as little light entered the room on cloudy days like this.

"Anna?" He held his breath, ready to adjust his next action to her reaction.

She looked up at his approach. Her eyes softened as she put aside her equipment, giving him allowance to come stand by her.

It wasn't him that she was upset with, then. He wrapped her hands up in his, feeling them tremble ever so slightly before becoming still.

Studying their entangled hands, she relaxed visibly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She withdrew a hand to caress the bruise forming on his face, not enough for him to feel any pressure, much less pain.

"Does it hurt?"

He shook his head. "No. It's just a bruise." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her cool, feathery touches, imagining that each flutter of her fingers healed in ways that all the turpentine in the world could not.

But when he opened his eyes, he realized her lips were quivering, the way they did in her most vulnerable moments. Of course it wasn't just a bruise. Not to her.

He covered her hand with his, laying them both flat on his cheek. "Were you frightened?"

Though she neither spoke nor nodded, he knew the answer. What he did not know, even after all this time, was what he could say or do to ease her torment.

Maybe she drew herself nearer first — perhaps he was the one to draw her in – but within a few seconds, she was snug within his arms, her face hidden against his chest. Was she crying? Was she forcing herself to take deep breaths? Was she shaking? He could not calm his own ragged breathing enough to tell.

He rested his chin on her head, fiercely studying their environments as though ready to fend off an approaching menace. But the danger was entirely within – and he felt powerless against it.

* * *

"There's quite a package arrived for you, Anna," the housekeeper announced with a probing look. Anna, however, could offer no immediate explanation.

Her confusion only grew when her eyes alighted upon the large and bulky package, its identity unknown and its presence baffling.

Mrs. Hughes was finding it difficult to contain her curiosity. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," the maid answered with a slight frown, her gaze fixed on the mysterious bundle.

From a few seats away at the table, Miss Baxter looked up and eyed the situation with her kind smile. "You weren't expecting anything, Mrs. Bates?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Anna said, though her mind raced through every possible theory.

The suspense was taking its toll on the impatient housekeeper. "Well, open it, then," she urged. "I haven't got all day."

Anna did not need a second push. Nimble fingers tore at the wrapping, and once the tightly knotted strings had been dealt with, the coarse paper gave way to reveal —

"There must be some mistake," she breathed, not daring to touch the contents of the package. Mrs. Hughes, too, stared in shock, and the elder lady's maid gave up her stitching to walk over and obtain a better view.

"Is that a frock?" It was Daisy. She had popped into the servant's hall and was now craning her neck between the others to peer at the package. "Is it Lady Mary's?"

Gingerly, Anna picked up the dress and held it up for all three women to admire. Its smooth, cerulean sheen shimmered and winked in the dimmed light, its material silky smooth and incredibly soft to the touch. There was no denying that the garment was humble in design, but that only diminished the possibility of it belonging to one of the ladies. It seemed ready to hug its wearer's body quite nicely, with sparse but strategically placed ruffles and folds to accentuate the best of her figure.

Miss Baxter was the first to realize Daisy's question still had not been answered. "I don't think it is, no," she said, in her soft but confident tone of voice. "One of us would've known about it."

"Then it must be Anna's," Mrs. Hughes concluded.

"I don't know," Anna said, still puzzled. "I never ordered one, that's for sure."

Daisy could not seem to stop gaping. "It's beautiful."

With an unconscious smile, Anna glanced at the young cook, then studied the frock again. It _was _beautiful, far superior to anything she owned. And there was no denying it: the dress looked ready to fit Anna's petite body, though she nervously pushed away the thought. She could not let herself become attached to it, not when it had clearly landed in her hands due to some gross, unfortunate misunderstanding.

The housekeeper shook her head. "There must be an explanation for this."

Anna's eyes flickered down to what remained of the package on the table and spotted a small, white card bearing a short note, scribbled in a hand she easily recognized:

_For our next dining adventure.  
Happy birthday, my dearest._

"It's from Mr. Bates," she said wonderingly. It _was_ hers, then.

Her heart rose to her throat — but it sank at the very next instant. She had berated her husband in the past for his capricious purchases, but _this_! How much had it cost?

She realized the two older women were eyeing her with an air of amusement. "I can't decide if I should give him a kiss or a smack when I see him next," she said with a laugh.

"But why?" Daisy inquired in shock. "Don't you love it?"

"Aye, but it must have cost him a pretty penny," Mrs. Hughes observed with a raise of her eyebrows. "And if there's one thing that dampens the spirit of romance in a marriage, it's the matters of the purse."

Anna nodded smartly. "Quite right, Mrs. Hughes." Quashing the girlish urge to dash off and try on the frock, she began to wrap it up again. She would have to take it back to the cottage in the evening and try it then.

"What's all this?"

It was the man himself, standing at the mouth of the hallway and wearing an all-too-innocent look of curiosity.

As if prompted by some unseen cue, Mrs. Hughes, Miss Baxter, and Daisy hastily filed out of the hall and into the hallway leading to the kitchen, though Anna could see their shadows giving away their lingering position, just out of sight. Privacy was always an illusion here.

Anna turned back to her husband, whose gaze flickered to the package before settling on her with a soft, knowing smile.

She struggled to keep a severe expression on her face – but it was a lost cause, her grin nullifying the force of her chastisement. "Do you care to explain this, Mr. Bates?"

"I had it ordered for you in York last year," came the unexpected reply. "Last spring, in fact." The deliberate way he spoke left no room for doubt as to the significance of his words.

Anna frowned, unnecessarily masking the sudden relief that flooded her. So _that _had been his occupation in York.

"It was meant to be your early Christmas present, but… I'm afraid there were quite a lot of botch ups along the way. I'm surprised it managed to arrive at all."

They studied each other, trying to both read the other and not give anything away.

She finally caved, after a weighted pause. "Well," she released a sigh, "I feel such a fool."

"Don't." He looked pained, as he waved her words away. He regarded her with a solemn gaze and lowered his voice, leaning in to ensure the others could not hear. "You had every reason to think it was me. There's no use denying it."

She shook her head – just the slightest of protests, but she did not press the issue. "I just wish you'd tell me what's in your mind. Instead of always having me worry."

"I'm sorry. But I couldn't spoil the surprise."

She placed a hand on her hip. "Well, I'd rather you did, next time."

"All right," he acquiesced. He smiled, one she recognized as a sincere one.

And, just like that, all was forgiven.

"But how exactly did you pay for it?" Her tone was much lighter now, despite the rebuke in her words.

"Lady Mary wants you to consider it her early Christmas present, as well as a birthday present."

She stared up at him, caught off guard again in spite of herself.

"What?" he teased, his eyes crinkled in glee. "You didn't think I would use up our money without telling you, did you? You should have more faith in your husband."

Indeed. She stepped closer to him. "But how did you know my measurements?"

He reciprocated her movement. "Well, Mrs. Bates, you _did_ marry a valet."

The temptation of his impish grin was too great. Anna raised herself on her toes, and was leaning in for a kiss — when Joseph Molesley walked in, clueless as always, his eyes automatically darting to Miss Baxter's usual spot. He did not notice Mr. and Mrs. Bates quickly draw apart, and he remained equally oblivious to the flash of irritation in John's eyes.

"Have you seen Miss Baxter?" the footman asked.

Anna gestured towards the kitchen, a smile still playing on her lips. "Yes, she's just gone into the kitchen."

"Oh, all right, then," Mr. Molesley mumbled. "Thank you."

As he walked over to the kitchen entry, there came a flurry of hasty rustling noises – the startled eavesdroppers – and then, "Miss Baxter! I-I was just on my way to find you."

"Is that so? I was just about to return to mending Her Ladyship's coat."

Mr. Molesley re-emerged into the servant's hall, Mrs. Hughes and Miss Baxter following close behind with an altogether too serene of an expression.

Anna and John turned to each other. "I suppose I've got to wait until tonight," she said reluctantly, fingering the dress again.

"I suppose you will," he said as they began to move apart, his eyes full of promise.

* * *

**A/N: I may have taken liberties with the whole ordering-a-dress process... Let's just go along with it... (Fellowes has people pop up to London for day trips all the time, after all.)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Part of my intention was to try and address some issues Downton has not featured but very well could. I hope it doesn't feel historically inaccurate or false to the nature of the show. I welcome your comments and suggestions on any of it. Anyway, loads of thanks to my two **_**wonderful **_**beta readers, Awesomegreentie and bugs. I would be so lost without them. (Even if sometimes they misread things and think John climbed out a window… LOL.)**

* * *

Charles Carson stared down at the unwelcome visitor with a sentiment rapidly approaching bewilderment. Never, in all his years of faithful service, had he been faced with such a situation. Apparently devoid of any notion of proper behavior, this complete stranger had boldly entered the back door of Downton Abbey and, unbidden, had seated himself in the servant's hall, refusing to budge until John Bates was duly summoned and made to appear.

Unperturbed by the host's distress, the young visitor was regarding the man with an easy, studious air. "Your eyebrows look something fearful," he observed conversationally.

Mr. Carson felt his mouth fall slack, and he hurriedly harrumphed in indignation to disguise the momentary lapse in propriety. He had not heard such remarks about his appearance — to his face, at least — since his regrettable days of youth. A plan of action involving the desperate but decidedly efficient measure of physically removing this boy from the premises himself began to take shape in his mind.

Just then, John stepped into the room.

"Mr. Bates," Mr. Carson rumbled immediately, stately disapproval emanating from every word, "Am I to take it that this _youth_" — his tone made it clear that only his steadfast adherence to decorum was preventing him from using a more damning label — "is an acquaintance of yours?"

John gaped at the unexpected sight of Henry, who leapt to his feet excitedly.

The valet quickly recovered his wits. "He is, Mr. Carson."

His next words were cut short by Anna, who followed him into the room. "Henry? What are you doing here?" She shot her husband a questioning look, only to find him with a confused frown to match her own.

"Do you have my book?" Henry blithely asked the pair. "I left it at the fair, and I thought you might've picked it up."

The butler of Downton Abbey was famous for neither his patience nor indulgence. "Would either of you care to explain who this is, and _why_ he is here?" He spoke with great precision, utilizing to his best ability the emphasis and sarcasm necessary to properly convey his vexation. "Or am I to understand that we are now in the business of entertaining _every village urchin_ who happens by our door?"

The village urchin eyed the tall, imposing man with new trepidation, suddenly wary of his thunderous voice and overcast eyebrows.

Anna was quick to explain. "This is Henry Stowe, from the village. We helped him look for his parents at the fair." She turned to Henry. "Your book is at our cottage, but… should you be here alone?"

"Mam doesn't know I've gone," he answered, with a shrug. "And me dad won't be up for hours."

The dignified butler looked scandalized. "But it's the middle of the afternoon!"

"Mr. Carson," John said hastily, trading alarmed glances with his wife, "Would it be all right if I escorted young Henry to his house? I'll be back in time for the dressing gong."

The proposition was carefully contemplated. "Very well," Mr. Carson finally conceded, with great visible reluctance. "And if you'll be so kind, Mr. Bates, as to inform Master Stowe that Downton Abbey is _not _a public house for loiterers…"

"Of course, Mr. Carson."

* * *

"Who was he, that scary old troll?" Henry kicked at a pebble as they walked.

The former Great Big Oaf could not help but chuckle at the epithet. "That's Mr. Carson, the butler. He runs the household, and is the head of all the male servants, including me." He put on a nonchalant attitude. "Why, did he scare you?"

"No, he didn't scare me a mite."

John turned his head to hide the grin that flared up in response to the insistent, rebellious tone. He had worried endlessly over the last few days, his imagination conjuring up the worst of fates for Henry and his mother after the public debacle. To all appearances, thankfully, Henry seemed unscathed, and as cheeky and energetic as ever, though John very well knew that not all injuries were always so visible.

"Can I really not come see you?"

Henry's head was bowed, but John could hear the pout in his voice. It would be the work of a moment, he realized, or even a single word, to dismiss this child from his life. It was as simple as that. Yet he was conscious of a desire to do the very opposite: to keep the boy nearby, under his own watch, and as much as possible.

Even Anna did not know to what extent Henry and his family had been featuring in John's restless dreams since the fair; she had her own demons to fight, after all. He had managed to keep everything fairly under control. But the dam had almost broken last night, when the vision of Douglas Stowe, with his vice-like grip on his terrified son, had blended with the enraged roars John had heard so often in his own childhood. He had taken shelter under the kitchen table, as he always did — or was it the garden? — and John, hugging his knees to himself, had trembled in the darkness — but suddenly, inevitably, a hand had grabbed his shoulder, and yanked —

He had startled himself awake, his nightshirt soaked in sweat. Thankfully, Anna had not stirred. Fearful of going back to sleep, he had then kept himself company until dawn crept in through the window…

He thrust the dark thoughts away from his mind. "Well, you'd be facing Mr. Carson's fury if you did, but you're not afraid of _that_, are you?" His tone was light and teasing.

"No…" Henry said reluctantly.

"Mr. Carson isn't so bad. He's a fair man, with a good heart."

The child shot back a very skeptical look.

"You could try and win him over," John suggested, half teasing and half in earnest.

He was rewarded with Henry's now-trademark scowl. "But how?"

John stopped in his tracks. "Well, for one," he said, reaching down to adjust the boy's skewed hat before he could help himself, "You could dress more neatly. Look presentable." Moved by a sudden impulse, John knelt down and began to dust off Henry's shirt with the careful, trained eyes of a valet. The material of the shirt felt coarse to his hands, thinned and wrinkled almost beyond repair.

Henry stood still, meekly but attentively observing.

"Don't you have a jacket?" John questioned gently.

"I do," came the answer. "But…" Henry hesitated, his gaze trained on John's expert handling of his loose and mismatched buttons. "But it's got holes."

"I can mend that."

Looking up to catch the boy's blank stare, John smiled. "I'm a valet — it's what I do. Bring it with you next time." He gave a final tug on the ends of the child's sleeves. "There. You look better already," he appraised. He grabbed his cane and stood up, groaning slightly at the exertion.

"Thank you."

Neither of them fully grasped what had just transpired. There was, however, a sense of a slight shift in their relationship, a connection strengthened — and a vague, subconscious awareness of this made both of them suddenly feel shy in the other's presence.

Buying time, John cleared his throat and bent to dust his knees, which had gathered their share of dirt from the kneeling.

"What's wrong with your leg?"

John met Henry's eyes with a twinkle in his own. "I'm surprised it took you so long to ask."

"Mam says I shouldn't ask too many questions of people. Then they'll ask me questions, too."

The thought of the questions Henry was so eager to avoid made John uneasy. "I hurt it in a war," he said, answering Henry's query with a doleful smile. "A very long time ago, before you were born."

Henry seemed struck by a thought. "Me dad, too, he—" He stopped himself.

"What is it?" John urged.

Too late, Henry was determined to maintain his silence, and John was reluctant to coerce him into breaking it.

"Here we are." Unceremoniously, John swung the cottage door open and made his way to the nearby table, where Henry's book — and the teddy bear — lay; Miss Baxter had been kind enough to hand them to Anna the morning after the fair. "And here _you_ are." He handed the book over.

Henry took it absentmindedly, too preoccupied with surveying the Bates' sitting room to reply. Everything seemed to attract his scrutiny: the modest clock and decorations on the mantelpiece; the small vase of white flowers from the gardens; the pretty but humble painting of a wooded landscape John had bought at a bazaar; the neatly spread tablecloth, fashioned from some old sheets and discarded lace thanks to Anna's resourceful, spendthrift ways; even the unremarkable white paint on the walls captured Henry's attention.

Daily surrounded by an aristocratic grandeur and opulence he could never dream of accessing for himself, John Bates the servant, wounded man and former convict, was not accustomed to feeling privileged nor envied. But here, standing in silence as a young boy with threadbare clothes studied the room, he felt keenly how different it all might seem from another set of eyes.

He walked back to the door and held it open. "Henry?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Henry held the book tightly to himself and followed John through the door.

The two began to make their way to the village, maintaining a thoughtful silence for a brief while.

The memory of Douglas Stowe surfaced again in John's troubled mind, accompanied by a long-forgotten past returned to taunt him. He should not have, perhaps, been so reckless as to grab and rouse up an ill-tempered drunk man, but there had been so many times when he had longed to, and yet had been too small, too weak, too afraid —

"I hate me dad."

It took John an insane, baffling moment to realize that it had been Henry who had spoken the words. "What?" he said, more sharply than intended.

"He always says I'm shaming him, but he's the one shaming us."

John scrambled to regain his composure. "Why do you say that?"

"You saw him. He always kicks up such a fuss when…" he trailed off. "I should've known. He'd been at the pub all day."

This time, John could not keep the alarm from stealing into his voice. "Does he do this very often?"

The boy's face was inscrutable.

"Henry, does your dad ever hit you? Or your mum?"

Henry's sullenly kicked at another pebble.

Sensing that the boy had clammed up again, John let the matter drop. It was becoming rapidly clear that direct questions would lead him nowhere. "Shouldn't you be in school, at this time of day?"

"I don't like to go if I can help it," came the apathetic reply. "I only get into fights, and I don't learn owt. Mam doesn't care for it, either."

"But if you want to learn how to fly an airplane, you've got to go to school."

This simple notion had evidently never occurred to Henry before. He stared up at the man in surprise, mulling over the words.

"Do you still have the plane I bought you? You haven't lost it?"

With a ready flourish, Henry produced the plane from his pocket. Some of the paint was already chipped, but its structure remained sound and unimpaired. John felt a surge of pride.

"I don't just want to fly a plane," Henry said stoutly. "I want to know how to _make _one, with me own hands."

Well, his father _was _a carpenter, John thought, though he suspected Mr. Stowe had not been a productive practitioner of his trade lately. "Just like Daedalus." He paused. "Do you know the story?"

The child shook his head no.

Quickly and eagerly, John narrated the Greek tale, a childhood favorite, of the clever inventor's attempt at escaping a tower together with his son, Icarus, using a pair of wings fashioned from wax, string, and feathers. Fueled by ambition, and the thrill of soaring through the sky on his own wings, young Icarus had then ignored his father's instructions to avoid flying too close to the sun, causing his wings to melt and thus plunge fatally — and tragically — into the sea.

Henry wasted no time in declaring Icarus a fool.

John chuckled. "Sometimes, we can't help but challenge our limitations, though we often fail."

Such philosophical musings meant nothing to the practical-minded youth, who scoffed. "I still think he was a half-wit."

"You're probably right," John allowed.

They shared a smile.

"Tell me another one," Henry requested, pulling on the strings of the plane's propeller.

John was only too happy to oblige. "Daedalus also built a labyrinth once, to house a monster called the Minotaur…"

All too soon, they were in the village, and Henry took the lead. Various houses, stores, and fields passed them by, and just as the buildings began to grow sparse again, Henry ducked into a dirt path. At its end stood a small, nondescript house.

Following the boy's example, John entered quietly, stepping with careful footsteps. He glanced about, taking in as much as he could without conspicuously lingering on anything. The windows were barren, devoid of curtains, and yet little light shone into the dusty room. The faint yellow paint was peeling off the walls, and the furniture looked bare, splintered, and unloved. A rocking chair sat in the corner, slumped and miserable, with only a very thin, worn cushion providing it with its own semblance of decoration or cover.

And the stale air reeked of an all-too-familiar odor.

To keep his mind from wandering down shadowy paths, John looked about for Henry, who had disappeared down a short corridor that John now followed. He treaded softly, though he did not know precisely why. Perhaps he feared waking ghosts, ones that haunted the edges of his consciousness with the stench of sickly sweet fumes.

Hearing murmurs, he followed the voices until he found himself in a small, untidy kitchen. There, bracing herself against an unsteady table, Mrs. Stowe was whispering rapid admonishments at her squirming son, who clutched the book to himself more tightly than ever.

"…And what if he _sees_—"

"I'll hide it, I promise! He won't see—"

They both looked up at John's entrance, the mother's eyes widening at the view. "Mr. Bates," she stammered, "Thank you for bringing my son back."

"It was no trouble at all, Mrs. Stowe," John replied affably, vaguely aware that every conversation with her seemed to follow a certain pattern. "I enjoy his company." He looked at Henry. "You shouldn't run off without telling your mum. You'll worry her to death."

Henry only shrugged off the reprimand, and John felt a sudden pang of pity for the mother. Parenting such a willful child could not be an easy task.

But John's sympathy did not seem to register with Mrs. Stowe, whose gaze and feet were shifting about incessantly. "I think you'd best go now, Mr. Bates."

"Might I have a word with you first?" he inquired gently, drawing the reluctant woman into the hallway.

Her movements only grew more agitated once she was alone with him. "Is this about the fair?" she whispered fervently. "We've got no money to pay you."

"Money?" He grimaced. "No, this isn't about money."

That did not seem to reassure her. "I was up and waiting all night, waiting for the police to come and knock on our door—"

He cut in. "Mrs. Stowe, I won't call the police. I just want to help."

Stunned, she stilled for a fraction of a second. "Help? But whatever for?"

He wished he had thought to plan his words in advance. "If your husband has been violent… If Henry—"

"What are you talking about?" She was shocked, offended – or frightened? "Douglas hasn't – hasn't lain a hand… He hasn't had a job in weeks— And it's only when he's had a drop to drink—"

They were talking over each other, whispering furiously.

"No, you don't understand, I know what it's like… I only want to help— But if there's anything I could do—"

"I don't know what – what you mean to suggest, Mr. Bates, but—"

"Mam? What's going on?" Henry peeked his head out of the kitchen entryway.

_Creak._

The three of them froze. The sound had come from above. They all glanced up, as though expecting to see the ceiling itself move.

"You'd best go," Mrs. Stowe said urgently, her voice pitched so low as to be almost inaudible.

But it was the sudden fright in Henry's eyes that made John alert. The spike of fear and anxiety in the room was palpable.

"Hurry," Mrs. Stowe pleaded, all pretense at decorum gone. "If he sees you here… He won't like it."

John did not argue. He could only aggravate the situation if he lingered now. Tipping his hat and giving the others a tight-lipped smile, he quietly but swiftly made his way back into the corridor, then out of the house.

Once outside, he breathed a deep sigh, releasing the tension that had coiled up within him. The clouds had gathered, dark and gray, to blanket the sky. And yet the light almost blinded him as soon as he closed the door behind him — very gently — and began to walk.

Well, it was no wonder the boy seemed to seek every opportunity to escape the house, John thought. Even the downstairs halls of Downton Abbey were an improvement; there was, at least, no reek of alcohol and dusty disuse there.

* * *

"I wish there was something I could do," he muttered, glancing about the empty hallway for signs of eavesdroppers.

A small frown played on her face as Anna absorbed his words. "It's a horrid situation, obviously, and I agree that something ought to be done, but…" She was observing him carefully, reading him in a way even he himself could not. "You're taking this rather personally." It wasn't an accusation. "Is it because of your father?"

Of course she had figured it out. Not seeing much sense in it, he had never told her very much about his past – and she hadn't pried for more in years – but she knew enough. More importantly, she knew _him _all too well.

One of the maids passed by just then, and John took the opportunity to pause and gather his thoughts before speaking. "I know the life he's living. And it's not a pleasant one. I barely survived it — how will he?"

"Well, His Lordship might help, if you asked him."

John paused to ponder her suggestion, but he hesitated to bring in the earl himself into such matters — at least, not yet. "I can't think what he could do. I might consult some of his books first, from the library. He won't mind."

"But what are you hoping to find, exactly?"

He found his hands moving of their own accord, striking the air for emphasis. "A clean solution — a way to remove Mr. Stowe safely and make sure Henry and his mother are taken care of, perhaps."

Frankly, however, he hadn't the faintest clue what might be done. His own experience made a poor example. He had always dealt — if _dealt _was the right word — with the worst of his domestic problems privately, out of sight from the others, and he knew of no other method. To John Bates, furthermore, the involvement of the authorities was always the last and most desperate of measures. "I thought there might be something in the legal books, or even history, to show what might be done…" His voice had climbed to a dangerous volume, and he brought it back down to an urgent, near-whisper. "I just want to know what we're up against. What we've got to work with."

Anna sighed, then nodded, accepting his decision. "Then I'll ask around — see what anyone knows about the family."

He smiled. She was, in all things and in every possible way, his partner and best advocate. "All right. Thank you."

She gave him a little smile in return, one that was both knowing and loving, and he instinctively reached out to take her hand.

"Anna!" came Mrs. Hughes's voice. "Lady Mary is ringing for you."

She gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze. "I'll see you at supper." Then she was gone. And, not for the first time, John found himself wishing he could hold onto their stolen moments together for just a little while longer.


End file.
